


Be Detectives, Ride 'round Picking Up Clues

by TullyBlue



Category: Glee, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Bisexual Noah Puckerman, Flirting, Hunters & Hunting, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Kurt secretly likes Puck's mohawk, M/M, Minor Character Death, One Shot, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Puck likes Kurt's legs a lot, Unresolved Sexual Tension, monster hunting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2019-02-09 05:12:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12880866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TullyBlue/pseuds/TullyBlue
Summary: When Daniel Puckerman dies, Noah is left with his father's life in a box and an unfinished case. He takes it upon himself to track down the werewolf that killed his dad. It leads him into a world he had only scratched the surface of before.





	Be Detectives, Ride 'round Picking Up Clues

**Author's Note:**

> Depictions of canon-typical violence and minor head injuries. Title taken from Hozier's _Jackie and Wilson_ , which is also mentioned below.
> 
> Re-edited November 2018.

Noah Puckerman only finds out that his father is dead when he’s asked to identify the body. It’s not exactly how he wants to spend his Saturday morning. He’s not too familiar with what his father looks like now, anyway. The last time he had seen Daniel Puckerman, Noah had still been in high school. Daniel had dropped by long enough to offer a beer to and wheedle $500 out of his underage son before skipping town again. A few months later, his son graduated high school, became the first person in his family to attend college, and forgot all about his father.

Now, after four long years, Noah had a degree, a steady job, a house of his own, and a dead father.

*

Daniel Puckerman did look much like Noah remembered, if more rugged. He had lost weight but grew a beard. There was a new scar, bisecting his left eyebrow and nearly reaching his receding hairline. But the brown eyes (now glossed over and never to open themselves again), brown hair (matted with blood), and rough hands (taught him how to play guitar and how not to treat a woman) were the same.

And of course, the anti-possession tattoo on his chest was a ( _dead_ ) give-away.

The coroner classified it as an animal attack. His dad had been camping in Cuyahoga Valley National Park. His campsite had been torn apart. His truck sported deep claw marks, like something had stopped him from escaping. His conceal and carry had been used once.

Noah went home with a box full of his father's possessions. The keys to his truck, his wallet, the two cellphones he was carrying, a star of David necklace, and a backpack containing only an “indecipherable" notebook and a large, silver bowie knife.

For a long time, he sat at the long island in his kitchen and stared at the box. This was his dad's entire life. The keys to his ’97 Tacoma, an ugly blue thing that somehow managed to _wheeze_ but that his old man refused to get rid of. Noah was more than a little surprised to see the Star of David hanging from a leather cord. His father had been Jewish, yeah, but his mom was always the one talking about going to Temple more often and watching _Schindler's List_. He knows the notebook is a collection of hunting information, stories, theories, and lore. A large part of him wanted to burn it. This was what kept his father on the road for years, gave him an excuse to never come around or call or care. Because he was working towards “the greater good,” and wasn’t that something?

But Noah remembered the bowie knife. He remembered the coroner only left a little portion of Daniel Puckerman's chest uncovered, just enough to see the tattoo peeking out. He remembered the claw marks on the truck and the blood in his father's hair.

He looked at the knife and then at the notebook. He thought about getting in his own car, a big black Tahoe with leather interior, and driving to the liquor store. He thought about calling Santana and asking if her girlfriend was still growing that nice Sativa strain. He thought about just putting the box in the back of his linen closet (because he had one of those, along with a good job and a fucking college degree) and forgetting it. 

Noah didn't do any of that. After a deep breathe, he put everything but the two phones back into the box. Then he pulled out his own cell phone and got busy. 

He called his boss, asked for and received a month of personal leave. He called the impound lot and made an appointment to pick up his dad's truck. He called his sister, delivered the news that the father she’d never remembered was now dead. Finally, he booted up his father's phones and called the most recently contacted number.

It was an unsaved number with a South Dakota area code. A gruff-sounding old man answered. Noah introduced himself and explained that Daniel was dead. It left him numb, to say it to this stranger that knew his father, unlike telling his sister or boss. His father was dead. Not just avoiding his children and responsibilities.

“Ah, hell, I’m sorry, kid. Daniel was a good hunter.”

“Good hunter don’t mean good father, but thanks.”

“Yeah, I know the type. There are too many of ‘em, if you ask me.”

“Damn right. But good or not, he was my father. So I’m gonna track down the sonuvabitch that did this and kill it. What can you tell me about the case he was working?”

It took a few minutes to coax the details from him. He didn’t want to send an inexperienced hunter after something that had already killed an experienced one. He offered to send some of his people to meet Noah, or vice versa. Noah understood his anxiety over him wanting to hunt alone, but pointed out that this was personal and something he needed to do. Alone. And Daniel had taught him a couple things, enough to kill a werewolf at least. Even if Ohio wasn’t the supernatural epicenter of the USA (that seemed to be Kansas, weirdly enough), there had been cases. A vampire when he was ten, a shifter the day after his twelfth birthday, then the coven of wannabe witches a few weeks after his bar mitzvah. He had never killed anything himself, but he'd watched his father on a few hunts. He could kill one damn dog by himself, thank you very much, Mr. Singer.

*

The mutt had a week's head start, but that meant a week's worth of bodies, too. Most werewolf killings were obvious – injuries like an animal attack, missing hearts, other body parts eaten. According to Mr. Singer, there were no other known lycanthropes in the Ohio area besides the one his father had been tracking. So, he hit the road in his dad's patched up Tacoma when he found the first dead body missing a heart in the news. Then he followed the path to the next one, and the next one after that. Noah was sickened each day he passed into a new town, and was able to confirm to himself that the “animal mauling” wasn’t a bear or mountain lion. An accountant had been killed in Ravenna, the first body just a few hours away from his home. She was two years older than him and had a beautiful blonde toddler that made him wish he were his father's son when he spotted the mini bar in his hotel room (he didn't give in, but he didn't sleep either). Another just outside of Treasure Lake, this time the victim was an old man who had been night fishing. Then there was a couple in a little place called Sylvan Grove, Pennsylvania. They'd been fooling around on a berry-picking farm. He watched two sets of parents mourn young love and young sons, wished his father had killed this damn thing himself.

For six days, Noah hid in a cheap motel room and cried after seeing the bodies of the two boys. He had told himself he could do this, he could kill one monster and be done. He could take revenge and have peace. But this wasn't peace. Peace was the berry farm _before_ the attack. Before the grass was blood smeared and entrail dotted, and just as certainly before they dug two graves for two young men who were just finding themselves. Puck couldn't imagine dying at seventeen. He was twenty-three and couldn't imagine dying now. (But that's not true, he would remember at the worst times. That's not true at all.) When he wasn't crying, he was throwing his guts up or obsessively checking every news outlet he could to find the next victim. He was awake for 39 hours at one point, so tired he hallucinated a phone call with his sister. When he woke up ten hours later, she had text him and asked if would please stop leaving butt-dialed voicemails no matter how funny one-sided conversations were to hear. He wanted to call her back, tell her about the cases. He really wanted to call Quinn and listen to her yell at him about how not everything in the world revolved around Noah Puckerman. Instead, he crawled into the shower and sat under the spray until it was cold enough to make him shake. Then he slept again. When he woke up, Noah felt empty and hungry, only one of which could be fixed. He ordered a pizza and got back to the case.

The last body was so far off from the couple that he would have missed it if he hadn’t called Mr. Singer again. He spent a week in Sylvan Grove before giving up in frustration and asking for help. An hour after he rang the older man in desperation, he called back to tell Noah about Boonton and where the wolf was heading. According to the man's sources (which seemed to be vast and all-knowing) the werewolf had killed a waitress in Boonton, New Jersey, and left the half eaten body laying in an alley right off Main Street. One of his sources (seriously, this guy must have like a hundred people working with him or something), was able to make a connection between Sylvan and Boonton. The wolf had slipped up, used a credit card in both places and left an official trail that could be traced all the way back to Brecksville, Ohio. Right next to where his father had been killed.

Noah waited two more days for the card to be used again. When he got the call, it left an unsettled feeling in his stomach. This was it. He knew where it would be. But something felt off about it. Killing a werewolf in some backwoods town or a hundred acre park was one thing – killing a werewolf in the middle of Manhattan was another.

*

At first, even Mr. Singer couldn’t find a pattern in the murders. It wasn’t until Noah was told to contact a supposed _genius_ friend of the old man's that they found a common thread. He had to give credit where credit was due: the guy may sound like he listened to too much Toby Keith and had a rebel flag hanging up in his house, but Ash knew his shit.

Every killing had involved a member of the LGBTQ community who was related to a political figure in Ohio. The only exception was his own father. He had likely been killed tracking the hunt, not for whatever weird homophobic issues this werewolf had. 

No one in Noah's family was working the political scene, and he sure as hell never came out to his father.

Now that they had a pattern, they could establish a list of possible future victims. The accountant had been a transgendered woman whose uncle was a governor in Ohio years ago. The old man from Treasure Lake was a late bloomer, coming out at fifty-six, and had a daughter running for Senate. One of the kids they found on the berry farm had a grandmother as county judge back in Ohio's Warren County. His boyfriend was just collateral damage. After some more digging, they found the murder that tipped off Daniel – a mayor's sister, killed and found by her partner of fifteen years. Living in Manhattan there was exactly one person with ties to an Ohio official who happened to swing the other way. Mr. Singer asked Noah, again, if he would like back-up. He declined – this was just getting more and more personal. Singer said his buddy would appreciate the case in a way most didn’t, but Noah held firm. This was his job. He had pulled himself together after Sylvan Grove. He would finish it, and he knew where to be so that he could.

It was rare a hunter got that lucky, so he was quick to track down Kurt Elizabeth Hummel.

*

Kurt Hummel turned out to be a busy man. He was a student at Parson's, had a job at Vogue.com that seemed to demand long and strange hours, went to the gym every morning, and attempted to keep an active social life. Noah trailed him carefully for four days, keeping as much distance as he dared. He was trying to save the guy's life – not stalk him. But keeping him safe did require following him from his apartment to his school to his work, and all the little coffee shops, pizzerias, and quiet little bars in between.

Senator Burt Hummel's son was not what Noah expected. He had seen the Senator before, even him met him once when the man gave a speech at Noah’s university his sophomore year. Senator Hummel was a bald, broad shouldered man with keen eyes and a firm handshake. He was of the people, for the people. As a small business owner, Hummel knew what was important to the majority of small-town Ohio. His approval ratings were unusually high, even if the more conservative parties were upset with his liberal views on human rights. And seeing his son, Noah understood why.

He really tried not to base his opinions of people on appearance, but Kurt Hummel was gay. Perfectly coiffed hair, painted on jeans, and shoes clean enough to have been worn straight from the store. Not only was he gay, he was drop dead gorgeous. Tall, though not quite as tall as Noah, with pale skin and a strange sort of grace. His eyes were just as keen as his father's, though harder and a confusing color between blue and green. He did have broad shoulders – at least for someone with such a tiny waist. Every single piece of clothing he wore looked like it cost more than Noah’s rent, and they were all stunning on him. So yes, definitely gay and definitely attractive. The latter of which was distracting and not part of his mission, but he couldn’t help noticing it when he spent upwards of sixty hours following the guy.

*

The first day was strange. Noah paid an arm and a leg to park his car for a while and took a subway to the neighborhood Kurt lived in. His apartment building had a dozen floors and flimsy security. Since he lived on the 9th floor, Hummel's place obviously had limited exits and entryways. From what Ash could gather, Kurt lived with a roommate named Rachel Berry. His day started around 6 a.m., when he would wake up, shower, go through a “beauty routine" (which Puck listened to him spend damn near ten minutes explaining to a classmate that first morning), all before heading to the closest coffee shop. He arrived on the Parson's campus around half an hour earlier than necessary. After drinking his coffee, Hummel would head to his first class, directly followed by an hour seminar, and one more class after that. Noah watched him juggle a phone call, a small and rushed lunch, and the walk to his workplace. The man was snarling into the phone at whatever poor soul was on the other line. Kurt seemed to end the call with a huff; his mood improved marginally when he entered the Vogue.com headquarters. This place had much better security than Kurt's apartments and Noah learned he could lurk in the cafe a few doors over. Here, Hummel spent six hours doing whatever he did, before he exited the building looking ready to collapse. He rode the subway closer to home, stopped in at a Thai place, and entered his apartment building at 10 p.m.

The next day was much of the same, with two extra classes and half the time spent at Hummel's place of work. Noah hadn’t seen anything suspicious in two full days of recon. When he returned to his motel a block from Kurt's, he felt drained and useless. The feeling didn’t go away as he stripped, showered, and threw himself down on the creaky bed.

When he started his third day of watching Kurt, he was angry his mood hadn’t improved.

He hadn’t really slept since the berry farm. The grisly image of the two boys stuck fast in his head. They were there every time he closed his eyes. He just kept wondering what it was like, to have someone to be so open (so _out_ ) with, at such a young age. Sixteen-year-old Noah Puckerman was firmly locked in the closet, wandering close to Narnia-depths. He was all bad-ass attitude, football plays, and cheerleader arm candy at that age. These two boys were everything he wanted to be – happy, hopeful, and honest. One had been on the swim team and the other played baseball. They both went to church and sang in the choir. They had everything Puck had _dreamed_ of.

And they died for it.

He followed Kurt Hummel into the third coffee shop today and was silently thankful.

*

It was five in the morning and Noah couldn’t sleep. He'd maybe had eight hours of fitful rest since he got to New York. Part of his insomnia could be blamed on leaving Kurt alone. (Well, he had a really loud roommate, but he doubted she could fend off a werewolf.) Realistically, he knew Kurt was likely to be sleeping safe and sound. But it was 5 a.m. the noises outside suggested the city really didn’t sleep, and the stains on his motel ceiling were very worrying. Even for him.

With a sigh, he threw his legs over the bed and started fishing for his jeans in the relative darkness. If he couldn’t sleep, he could always be working. And the coffee shop outside would be open in about a quarter of an hour.

*

On Thursdays, Ash had told him, Hummel took a dance class. He followed the man from his home to his classes to a studio not too far from the Parson's campus. It was a small building compared to the ones around it, though no less impressive – full of glossy black windows and sparkling chrome. Noah sat at a small bistro across the street, watched Hummel enter. The class was two hours long and he had time to kill. His father's notebook was spread out in front of him with every detail he knew about the werewolf and every detail Noah had added.

It was a lot easier to think of his target as _the werewolf_ , versus her name. She was a Pureblood, anyway, able to control her transformations on a whim and not just victim to the lunar cycle. It made all of her crimes that much more gruesome, that much more sadistic.

They didn’t have much on her, honestly. Her name was Amelia Lockhart. She was born and raised in Columbus, twenty-eight years old, unmarried, childless, supposedly worked as an editor to a news website, and had no criminal record on file. Mr. Singer was able to dig up information on her parents. Three years ago, a pair of hunters in contact with him had killed three lycanthropes with the same last name: Amelia's father, mother, and sister. After that, she disappeared for a while and now was back in full force. There was no apparent trigger to her killing spree – no pro-LGBTQ laws had been passed in Ohio recently, gay marriage had been legalized across the board years ago, none of the actual politicians were queer. Mr. Singer assured they were still looking, though.

*

He ordered an Americano, a grilled cheese, and a large bowl of tomato soup. New York may be bustling at all hours, but the city only held so much heat between it’s skyscrapers and the wind was biting today. The food is good – warm and filling. He’d been living off of fast food and what Starbucks pastries he could scarf between Kurt's commutes. The soup and sandwich had been his first decent meal in nearly two weeks.

Two hours pass quickly. Noah polished off his food, went over his notes, kept his eyes open at all times. No one matching the werewolf's photo entered the building through the two doors he could see from his angle. Kurt didn’t come out when the clock hit six. He didn’t come out after fifteen after or half past, either. The minutes ticked by, he watched more and more pkeople leave. But no Kurt. The studio closed at six. Hummel should have been finished. Antsy, Noah left more money than necessary on the table and approached the studio. The front entrance led into a lobby; there was a very slight alley on the left with another door. He rounded the corner to enter the alleyway and saw a willowy woman with deep copper hair and a smattering of freckles on her cheeks. His heart pounded once, twice, before she turned enough for him to catch her side profile. Sharp cheekbones and small ears, but the double piercing in her left eyebrow was the kicker. That was the werewolf.

Abruptly, Noah turned around and walked at a moderately fast pace towards the front entrance. He didn’t want to call attention to himself for being too fast or too slow in his movements. Deep breaths, even steps. The werewolf didn’t even know she was being tracked. All he had to do was get Kurt out of the building and into his apartment or a setting public enough that she wouldn’t attack him.

He had just reached the empty lobby when he heard the glass window on the side door break.

Never in his life had he been more thankful for carefully laid plans. Ash had emailed him blueprints of all the buildings Hummel frequented and he knew exactly what room Hummel should be in. His bowie was strapped to his thigh, hidden from the knee-length coat he wore. Noah took the stairs two at a time, unbuttoning the coat as he went up two floors and burst through the door to turn left and sprint down the spacious hallway. There were three rooms and Hummel should be in the second on the right. He shouldered the door open and slammed it behind him, locking it as he did.

The first thing he saw after turning around was muscle. It really, well and truly, was _not_ the time to be admiring the stretched length of Kurt Hummel's leg. But it was kind of hard to look away from, what with the alabaster skin and a light dusting of pale hair contrasted against a strange black unitard. It was worse to look at his face. The pictures and stalker-distance sightings had not done the man justice. Noah had never seen a man with such soft-looking, pink lips. And his eye color was still confusing, but it was also mesmerizing. He forced himself to look away, to focus, to not start drooling just because it’s been a while since he got laid. He wasn’t there for that. He was there to kill a monster, for God's sake.

But it took him a moment longer, because Kurt was frozen in place and stared at him like he was the mythical creature come to life. And in the background of everything, Kurt Hummel was stretching to fucking Hozier. Not classical, or even a piano cover, like so many ballet classes preferred. Just straight Hozier, and Noah _loved_ this damn song.

But then he heard a door slam open down the hall and knew he had seconds before Kurt was in danger. His bag went sliding across the hardwood floors and he had another moment to shrug out of his coat, unsheathe the bowie knife, and silently hope his laptop survived the toss of his bag before the door to the practice room started rattling.

Kurt didn’t scream, but his whispered, “ _What the fuck_ ,” was full of panic and anger.

The door was shaking and soon, Noah figured, she would ram it. With werewolf strength, even the solid wood door of a mostly soundproof room would cave quickly. He breathed as deep as he dared, backed up a few places, and dropped into a defensive stance facing the shaking entryway.

When he spoke, he kept his voice as steady as possible and hoped nothing he said would make Kurt start screaming. “Look, this is crazy and I was trying to prevent it, but the thing on the other side of the door wants to kill you. I’ve been tracking it and you’re the next target. Let me handle this and we can both go home tonight knowing the world is a little bit safer.”

It wasn’t much, but Noah Puckerman didn’t really know how to tell a cute guy that a homophobic werewolf with a hidden political agenda was planning to kill him to hurt his father on such short notice.

*

When the door broke, he was ready. Kurt hadn’t answered him, but shoved himself behind a rack of leotards and was rummaging through his bag. Silently, Noah hoped he wasn’t attempting to call the police or anything like that.

She burst in, snarling and looking more feral than not. Her eyes zeroed in on the knife. When she moved, it was lightning fast. When she struck, it was _hard_. He was thankful for years of football and college rugby for training him to keep his feet beneath him. He swiped and jabbed with his knife, initiating the dance of death all hunters play when they’re doing their job. Despite her obvious lead in speed and strength, the werewolf had still been caught off guard. She had probably expected Kurt to be alone and distracted. It was clear she didn’t expect a fight; the wolf was dressed in nice slacks, a dark sweater, and heeled boots. Noah, in jeans and a long sleeved Henley with hard-toed sneakers, had an advantage with clothing easier to move in.

Yet it was Kurt, in his black unitard and soft-looking white ballet shoes, that drew the first blood. Noah had just flat out tackled the werewolf, sending her tumbling to the floor while she tossed him sideways into the wall. There was a headache pounding against his temples and his eyes were seeing everything twice, but he had heard something _crack_ when he tackled her and his Bowie was back in his hand so things were looking up. He rolled off his side and onto his knees. She was already crouched, one foot ready to push off the ground – ready to go again. But then there was a weird whistling noise and the wolf _jerked_ backwards and she was howling. Something not quite human, but not animal either, an awful noise in between that made his eardrums itch. It was followed by two more whistling noises in quick succession and she was back on the floor. She crouched again, ready to launch herself at him. He swing a leg out and prayed his mark hit, exhaling hard when his kick caughter her under the chin and sent her reeling. She thudded to the ground and didn't get back up this time. Her legs were sprawled awkwardly; her arms were scrabbling at her torso and coming away bloodied. Noah tried to keep on his feet and looked for Kurt.

He was standing next to the rack of leotards, scowling. Noah Puckerman stared at this man, serious and on edge, and had a hard time connecting it to the beautiful guy he had seen minutes before. Something was spinning in Kurt's hands and he threw it, quick and hard. Noah's eyes focused long enough to watch the man's arm draw back and _snap_ forward with a speed he couldn’t believe. It whistled like the rest and buried itself in the werewolf's thigh.

They were knives. Kurt fucking Hummel was, somehow, a ninja. Noah wondered, briefly, how hard he had hit his head. There were some floaty spots hanging out in the practice room, so he bet it was hard enough. His knees hit the hardwood and he wanted to lay his head down.

But – no. He was here to kill this bitch. Images of the two boys, the woman with the little girl, the old man, sharpened in his mind. Gritting his teeth, Noah struggled to his feet and gripped his own knife tightly. The werewolf was panting in short, wet, sucking breaths. Kurt was stepping closer.

With one eye on the struggling wolf and one on his new ally, he said, “Okay. Hello, Kurt. I’m Noah Puckerman. How did you fucking do that?”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Without filling pulling his attention from the woman on the floor, Kurt smiled sweetly at him. “Hello, Noah. Thank you for trying to save my life. That was very dashing.”

“You’re uh. Welcome. What did you do to her?” He shifted from foot to foot, going to stand beside the nearly still werewolf. His knife felt rather heavy. His whole body felt rather heavy, actually. Noah tried to focus on what Kurt was saying.

“-knives. They’re throwing knives. Easy to hide, easy to use – if you’ve got the patience to learn. They’re dipped in aconite. It attacks the nervous system of werewolves, which is very useful to Hunters.”

If Noah had strung that together right, then Kurt was a Hunter who knew a werewolf was after him and how to take one down. He looked at the other man in confusion and collapsed. Kind of. He fell to one knee. If he reached out his hand, he could touch the monster writhing on the floor. There was blood all over the wolf bitch. Her breathing sounded as sticky as her shirt looked. She couldn’t seem to focus her eyes – they darted around and fluttered close at weird intervals. She didn’t even try to kill him and he was. He was so close to her. But she wasn’t killing him, like she killed his dad. Her eyes fluttered again and they were brown. They were almost kind of gold, if he looked hard enough. His dad's eyes had been sharper and darker and he wanted to kill her for that, for having kinder eyes than the man _she_ killed. He moved the knife up to her throat. The skin was pale and the muscles near the blade were fluttering like her eyes. He put a little pressure on his grip and thought about adding more. 

Kurt's hand staid his. Noah looked up, angry and confused and hurting. She killed his dad. His head was throbbing. Kurt knew how to kill werewolves. 

“Noah, I know you want to hurt her. But right now, you look like you’re about to pass out. Bobby told me this was a very personal job for you, so why don’t we hurry this along? Just, maybe somewhere easier to clean up.”

He wanted so badly to protest. But the dark, floating spots had gotten bigger and Kurt's eyes ( _blue and gray and green and every color in between_ ) were shining like beacons before him. “She killed him. She killed my dad. He wasn’t a good dude, but he was my dad. I have… I have to.” His eyes felt heavy and he blinked hard. It was a bit easier to see but he was so tired. “Tarp. Rope. In my bag. I have a tarp.”

“I’m sorry about your dad, Noah. I lost my mom. It’s hard. I’ll grab your bag and we can get on with this mess. But Noah? Killing her, it won’t make him come back.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to argue. Noah didn’t want his dad back. He wanted his life back to normal, to stop feeling so angry, to do something about it. But something ( _Kurt's eyes_ , he thought; _the concussion_ , he later joked) made him pause. “Lets end it.”

Kurt nodded, only once, and held his hand tighter. “Lets end it.”

Noah nodded, only once. He waited for Kurt to bring him the tarp. Together, they rolled the weakly snarling animal onto the plastic. Kurt retrieved his knives (one in each shoulder, one in the gut, and one buried in a lung) and sat back on his heels beside Noah. The hand gripping the Bowie shook, but Noah would see this through. He put the blade to her throat again. Her eyes roamed across the room a few times before meeting his. The wet, sucking breaths had quieted. Now, she narrowed her eyes and bared her teeth.

“Just fucking do it. You pathetic Hunters wiped out the rest of my family. Finish the job,” she rasped, switching her glare from him to Kurt with her last words. "Just sad I couldn't take this bitch and his father with me."

Noah dragged the blade across that softly jumping pulse point. It was done in only a second. He'd never seen the light leave something's eyes before, but forever remembered how weird it was that animals, humans, and everything in between died the same way. 

*

“The only cameras in this place are in the lobby and at the front entrance. It’s rather tasteless, but the dumpster in the alley is our best bet. Can you stand up?”

Kurt Hummel, in his unitard and ballet slippers, was wrapping up the dead werewolf tightly with his dollar store tarp. Then he was tying her up, binding the body at the feet and around the chest. When Noah didn’t answer him, he turned and raised an eyebrow. Again, he was reminded of how fucking pretty this man was. “Maybe? Everything’s still fuzzy. Pretty sure I got another concussion.”

He furrowed his eyebrows together and Noah stared at his arms as they flexed with the force of tying off a knot. Not just pretty, then. “Another?” Kurt asked.

“Played football and rugby. I know what they feel like.”

With an appraising once-over and a little smirk, Kurt muttered, “That makes sense.” He gathered their bags, Noah's weathered duffle and his own leather messenger bag, before standing beside the other man. “Come on, I’ll get you downstairs and call for back-up.”

“No back-up. Didn’t want any,” he grunted. Which was true, he hadn’t wanted help on this case. It was good Kurt was there though. He'd overestimated himself and underestimated the bitch. Looking at Kurt's outstretched hand, he was doubly glad the surprise ally was the target.

“Bobby sent some anyway. They weren’t going to interfere unless they had to.” Kurt grasped his hand and pulled him to his feet. Both bags were hanging on his arm and Noah added his weight when he felt his knees shake. Before he had the chance to apologize, Kurt kept talking. “We weren’t sure if you could take a Pureblood without any training, but you were amazing. I’ve seen guys who have been Hunting all their lives struggle more against regular werewolves than you did tonight.”

It took a lot of concentration, but Noah managed to keep his feet underneath him, look Kurt in the eyes, and say, “Didn’t do so well. Got my ass kicked. You ended up saving me.”

The corners of Kurt's eyes crinkled up when he laughed. “You’re quite the damsel in distress, Mr. Puckerman.”

“Call me Noah.”

Kurt's grin turned softer and he wrapped Noah's arm around his waist and his arm around Noah's shoulders. “Well, let’s get you out of here, Noah. I don’t think you’re in any position to be carrying a body.”

They took the elevator down to the first floor, where Kurt led him around the lobby and out the side door. He carefully stepped around the broken glass. Kurt sat him on the doorstep, hands gentle and lips pursed in concentration. Noah was vaguely impressed with how strong Kurt was for his size. His mind flashed back to the length of pale skin layered over muscular thighs. With a groan, he let his head _thunk_ softly against the wall.

All of a sudden, Kurt was in his face with a hand on his cheek. Noah struggled to breathe. His vision was still blurring and his head hurt like hell, but none of that compared to what those pretty blue eyes made him feel. “Are you alright, Noah?”

He closed his eyes again. Sure, he was a Puckerman, but even he was having trouble juggling a concussion and the burning Kurt's hand left in its wake. “Yup. Peachy. Just needed some air.”

It looked like Kurt wanted to argue, but he just nodded and pulled away. He tried not to feel disappointed at the loss of the guy's touch. They were strangers. ( _Strangers who had just killed a woman together,_ he thought.)

Then Kurt was on the phone having a quick, clipped conversation. It was seconds long and he hung up without really saying anything. Just, “We need some help,” “He has a concussion,” and “Thank you.” Noah let his eyes slip close after Kurt hung up and announced he was going to change while they waited on the back-up he had asked Mr. Singer not to send.

It seemed like hours before Kurt came back, but probably wasn’t more than a couple minutes. He had ditched the spandex for a tight pair of black jeans, a bright red coat like all those English dudes wore, and a pair of boots so tall they could ride roller coasters by themselves. Noah almost didn’t miss the unitard.

“I can call you a cab. Do you think you’re alright to go back to wherever you’re staying, or do you need to go to the hospital?” He paused, tapped the toe of his boot for a moment. “You’re concussed. Should I let you be making decisions?”

“We've got a body to clean up, Hummel. Can’t ditch that in the middle of your dance floor.”

“I’m not too worried about that. Bobby sent two strapping Hunters to help me out with the clean up. I’m much more concerned about how you just slurred every other word you said.”

“Gotta finish this, Kurt.”

He sighed and moved a hand up to swipe at his hair with an annoyed expression. “Fine. But then I’m getting you home myself, to make sure you don’t drop dead.”

Noah managed a weak chuckle. “Whatever you say, lionheart.”

Kurt scoffed, but settled next to him quietly. For a few minutes, the only sounds between them were those of the city. It was getting later, past dinnertime. The sun had gone down ages ago while he sat in the café across the street. He could hear streetlamps buzzing and cars driving past and people talking very distantly. Then a softer sound joined those, closer but far less unpleasant. It took him a moment to realize Kurt was humming the Hozier song from earlier. He laughed softly.

“You know, I don’t think I’ll be able to listen to Hozier without thinking about you like, ever again. Who does ballet to that kinda music anyway?”

His companion huffed, but it sounded more amused than angry. “I was stretching, not dancing. I find I’m less tense the next day if I stretch before and after class. Do you know how much walking I do in a day? Commuting with sore calves and thighs is killer. Besides, Hozier is a perfectly respectable choice.”

“ _Jackie and Wilson_ is a perfectly respectable choice, sure. I’m not a huge fan of everything he sings – that’s my favorite though. And hell yeah I know how much you walk. Tailing you these past few days has been an eye opener. You’re a busy guy, Kurt.”

“Tailing me? Bobby said you were following the wolf, not me.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t know when it was going to attack. But Singer knew you were next on its twisted hit list. So, find you – find the monster.”

“You’re surprisingly stealthy for being, well, you.”

Noah narrowed his eyes in confusion, pleasantly surprised when he only saw one Kurt. “What’s that s'posed to mean?”

For the first time, he saw a blush creep into Kurt's pale skin. “You’re not exactly average-looking, Puckerman.”

“Noah,” he corrected without thinking.

“ _Noah_. You’ve got the whole Tall, Dark, and Handsome thing going on. Also, you have a Mohawk. I don’t think I’ve seen anyone with a Mohawk in like, a year. And I live in New York City.”

“Shut up. Everyone digs the ‘hawk.”

“I’m sure.” And Kurt said it in a way that announced the smile on his face, a way that sounded like flirting. Noah could handle flirting (at least, better than he could handle killing his first thing – which had killed his father).

He leaned in, just a few inches, and pinned Kurt down with his stare. So maybe he thought about just closing that distance, pressing his lips to Kurt's pretty little grin. Nothing like a fight to get the adrenaline going, right? The smile on his lips morphed into a smirk. “Are you telling me I don’t rock it, lionheart?”

Then, because the universe was cruel (and probably God, too, who knew Noah ate bacon and skipped Temple), back-up arrived. Someone called out for Kurt from the mouth of the alley and he was up and speeding towards them. Whoever it was met him halfway and wrapped him up in a tight hug and _twirl_ that lifted him off his feet. Noah watched those boots flail for a second; Kurt's laughter rang out like church bells. And, feeling sicker at the thought than his concussion had made him, he realized he had no idea if Kurt was single or not. This could be his totally hot, totally badass, experienced Hunter boyfriend. Fuck, he wanted to go home. He wanted to skip the drive and be in his own damn bed. He wanted to call his sister and process everything that had happened and visit his nana and maybe sleep for ten years.

There was another, even taller dude who got an enthusiastic greeting from Kurt – although without the twirl. The group (with Hummel in the middle, chatting excitedly) made its way towards Noah. He desperately wished his concussion away, grunting as he used the wall to get to his feet.

Kurt shot to his side and steadied him. “Noah, you probably shouldn’t be straining yourself.”

“I’m getting this over with. Just cause I can’t carry a body doesn’t mean I’m useless.”

“Not useless, just heavily concussed, you idiot.”

Noah sent Kurt a frosty look and stepped forward. Without assistance. The two guys before him were both older, stupidly attractive, and definitely seasoned Hunters by the way they carried themselves. He felt his mood darken further, but held out a hand nonetheless. “Noah Puckerman,” he said.

The (very) tall one shook his hand first. His grip wasn’t too hard but definitely firm. “Sam Winchester.”

Then the pretty one, who had twirled Kurt around. “Dean Winchester. Heard you saved Kurt's life today. You’ve got our thanks. His dad woulda put Sammy and I six feet under if something happened to him.” He smiled at Noah, pink lips stretched wide enough to flash perfectly pearly white teeth.

He was suddenly very uninterested in what Kurt had said about him. So he shrugged and admitted, “More like Kurt saved me, really. I just got slammed into a wall and killed a paralyzed werewolf.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Puckerman. That bitch was a Pureblood. I’ve never walked away from one of those without at least a limp.”

Noah only nodded in acknowledgement. His eyes strayed to Kurt, who was staring at him in turn. The furrow was back between his brows and something in the set of his jaw spoke of disappointment. “I need to leave out the front door and lock it up, so I’m on camera. Can you two sit with Noah?”

While he resented the implication he needed to be babysat, he didn’t protest. They were the professionals, after all. He was just some punk kid from Ohio on a revenge mission. The Winchesters agreed easily. Kurt gathered his bag, sent Noah a strange look, and went inside.

After he left, Sam spoke up in a way that obviously meant he was attempting to make polite small talk. “We've worked with Daniel once or twice. He had good instincts. I didn’t know he had kids, though.”

Noah snorted. “Yeah, two sons and a daughter, not that he acted like we exist.”

Sam's smile was sardonic and his eyes were understanding in a way he didn’t see on most people. “That seems to be a trend with Hunters.” Dean shot him a warning look and he changed the subject. “How's your head feeling? Kurt mentioned you’ve got a pretty bad concussion.”

His eyes had been focusing normally but his headache hadn’t left. “Nothing I haven’t had from rugby practice. It’ll be fine. Have you two known Kurt long?”

“Since he was having tea parties and wearing his mom's heels,” Dean said (and Noah was not jealous). “His mom was from a family of Hunters and we grew up in the life.”

The distinct sound of Kurt's boots signaled his return, this time from the opening of the alley. “That should be enough to give me a decent amount of truth to my story. We can call in the break-in later.” He angled his body in a way that meant he was speaking directly to Dean and asked, “Are we doing this manually or do you have a little help from upstairs?”

Personally, Noah didn’t think the werewolf would be any help, but the man only replied, “Can’t exactly park my car on the curb and throw her in the trunk.”

Sam asked, “Do you want to call?”

Instead of pulling out his phone, Dean took three steps away from the group and stared into the sky. “Cas? We could use some help down here, if you gotta sec.”

There was a sound of bird wings (huge birds, it seemed, but there wasn’t even a pigeon in the alleyway) and suddenly a man appeared. Honestly, Noah didn’t even have the energy to be surprised. This new addition to his day wasn’t as model-worthy as the brothers, but still handsome. Noah didn’t think he'd ever seen someone with eyes that color blue. And no, he would not compare them to Kurt's.

“Dean,” the man said, and _wow_ , he would have killed for a voice that low back in his Glee days. “You called.”

“Yeah, man, we’ve got a situation. Kurt and his friend Noah here killed a werewolf, but we need some discreet clean up.”

The man turned his electric eyes onto Noah. “Hello, Noah. You have a blessed name.” Before he could shrug and ramble about his mom indeed naming him for biblical story, the guy reached out and placed two fingertips on his forehead. A flash of light sparked behind his eyes and when it left, his headache was gone. “That should have gotten rid of your concussion, though you may want to stay awake for a while longer with someone to monitor you.”

Then the three strangers were heading upstairs with a conversation he was too stunned to catch. Kurt look amused when he placed a hand on Noah's arm to draw his attention.

“What the fuck was that guy?” He had been summoned by calling out his name, teleported, and then healed him. What kind of friends was Kurt keeping?

“That was Castiel. He’s a very…special sort of Hunter. Now come on, I've got work tomorrow and desperately need to exfoliate after today's events. Did you come to town alone? Bobby said you were from Ohio.”

Shaking it off, Noah nodded. “Yup, Lima Heights Adjacent. I've even met your dad. Gave a speech at OSU.” He paused. “No, I came alone. This isn’t really a vacation you bring a friend along for.”

“Not your brother? Or girlfriend?” Kurt was fishing now, as he collected their bags again and led Noah out onto the sidewalk. The street was quiet.

“This isn’t really Jake's scene. And my sister Sarah’s still in school. I wasn’t dragging them into this. My last girlfriend has been a lesbian for like three years, but I don’t doubt she could have taken down a werewolf.”

“She sounds fierce. Three years is a long time to go without dating.”

He raised an eyebrow at Kurt, wondering if he was being purposely difficult. “I’ve dated since Santana came out the closet. My last relationship was with a very nice, normal fireman named Damon who wouldn’t believe what we did today in his wildest dreams.”

That caught Kurt's attention and Noah watched him mouth a pleased and surprised, _Oh_. He let it sink in before replying, “You bat for both teams?”

It had been a very long day (week, month) and all he wanted was to pass the hell out. “Look, Kurt, cut the shit. I’m bi, you’re hot, and if it wasn’t for your boyfriend back there I would be trying very hard to get into the skinny jeans you painted on earlier. Now, I've got a shitty motel to get back to and a drive home to prepare for.”

Kurt's face was the very definition of flabbergasted (a word Sarah had taught him when she was eight, the little smart ass). He had stopped walking when Noah answered him and almost ran to catch up. His pale, slender fingers tugged the back of Noah's shirt until he spun around to face the other man. “My what, now?”

“Dean?” He rolled his eyes at Kurt's shock. “Dude, he literally twirled you around. I mean, I'm hot as hell, don’t get me wrong. But that guy should be on TV or billboards or some shit.”

“Dean isn’t- I’m not-" Kurt took a deep breath and curled his fingers around Noah's biceps. “Sam and Dean are like older brothers, or cousins. I’m not dating either one of them. In fact, Dean has been dancing around Castiel for years. I wouldn't have a chance if I wanted one.” He seemed to reassure himself with those words and looked Noah in the eyes when he continued. “And yes, you are quite handsome. So if you'd like to take your foot out of your mouth, there’s a very nice Italian place a few blocks from my apartment that we could go to for lunch tomorrow. But the skinny jeans are staying on until the third date, minimum.”

Grinning, Noah surged forward and planted a kiss the corner of Kurt's mouth. He wrapped an arm around Kurt’s waist and propelled them along the street. “There’s a decent diner right next to my motel. And we'll see.”

*

Their first date got off to a rough start, between the monster killing and Kurt turning on his heel the minute he saw the place Noah suggested they eat. Instead, they ended up on Kurt's couch with Chinese takeout and Project Runway. It was easy in a way Noah had never felt with another person before. He wasn’t afraid of slipping up and mentioning monsters, Kurt didn’t care that he cursed like a sailor, and they were both sarcastic without being cruel. His ribs hurt from laughing at his date’s commentary before the first episode was even over. And when the wine Kurt had poured made their lips loose and their hands brave, they forgot all about the television in favor of making out like teenagers on the damn couch. After that, he figured it could only get better from there.

He was right, of course, until the next morning came along.

While his nightmares were handled by sheer exhaustion, Noah was by no means a deep sleeper. He was formally introduced to Rachel Berry when she threw back Kurt's blankets to wake up her roommate. By the way she screeched, it wasn’t normal to find her best friend in bed with another man. Noah only huffed and buried his face in Kurt's neck. It’s not like they were naked; Kurt was very firm in his three date rule even after three glasses of red.

He wasn’t worried. Two more dates like the one last night was a price he would willingly pay to peel those jeans down Kurt's long, lean legs.


End file.
